


reminds me of the summertime

by Imkerin



Series: CL gijinka [2]
Category: Champions League - Northendgirls, Football RPF
Genre: Anal Fisting, F/M, Gijinka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 22:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7192715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After five years, it's time for Miro to move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reminds me of the summertime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



Miro rarely sees her like this, and never so close; he hadn't expected it, when he had stayed a few minutes late alone in the dressing room for one last private goodbye, that she would come to him, but here she is, the locked door of her own house no barrier. They must have given her no time to change: he feels out of place in his fresh clothes, looking at the grass stains on her torn and tattered chiton, the dark club-shaped bruises that streak down her bared arms. He feels out of place here, in a place where, despite the weeks left on paper, he no longer belongs. "I'm sorry," he says.

She smiles slightly; her lip is split, barely scabbed over. "But you scored for me," she says.

"It shouldn't have been mine."

"It was yours." Lazio crosses soundlessly from the door to stand next to him in front of his cubby, looking into it: his name, his picture, his clothes, a few scattered remnants of the last five years.

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing, just turns back and stands there next to her, side by side, looking at the past. After a moment she shifts, glancing at him, and he thinks surely she’ll ask him something he can’t answer, a question about the future or an order he can’t follow. 

Instead, though, her eyes slip downwards, the weight of her gaze heavy on his chest, his arm. The new bandage on his wrist feels suddenly tighter as she looks at it, the old familiar ache intensifying for a brief moment before she reaches out and takes it in both hands, her touch delicate and gentle. She strokes gently across the top of it, knuckles to forearm, and Miro is reminded with a sudden crashing shock of that afternoon in the massage room that for months he has tried never to think of -- 

He must have twitched under her hands, given himself away somehow, because she looks back up in time to see him off-balance, unguarded, horrified blush burning across his cheeks. Swallowing, he stammers some nothing that sounds incoherent even to his own ears; he wants to look away, but can’t.

Lazio’s grip tightens on him almost to the edge of pain for an instant before her fingers stroke onwards up to the top edge of his bandage, tracing lightly again there, just barely touching skin. “I told you before I have always been willing to share,” she says. “But giving you up entirely will not be so easy… although I think you’ll remember me even when you wear someone else’s colors, won’t you?”

“It would be hard to forget,” he says, counting it well done that his voice stays at least mostly steady; there isn’t much he can do about the way her touch is raising the hair on his arms, or the wary feeling from the almost savagely possessive glint in her eye. Nothing good can come from reminding her that he wasn’t offered an extension: not for Inzaghi or the rest of them, at least. He isn’t even sure if she _knows_ , or whether she’s pinned this on him wanting to leave her, but setting her on them would only be cruel.

“Good.” She pushes him backwards steadily, inexorably, a step at a time until he’s trapped against the wall next to the door to the showers, then leans in and kisses him, hard and bruising. The split in her lip breaks open, the blood hot and coppery and strangely no different than his own, but she doesn’t stop for long seconds more, until the breath comes raw in his throat. “Did you keep it?”

“I-- eh--” Miro licks his lips, the taste of her blood smeared across his skin and the sight of it reddening hers doing nothing to calm his nerves. “Yes.” He’d smuggled the dildo out of the physio room wrapped in a stolen towel, then shoved quickly in the bottom of a spare gym bag; smuggled it _in_ the first time he could catch a minute alone in the house. It’s locked up now, in a box on a back shelf, a secret too dangerous to risk, one he can’t bear to get rid of. He hasn’t looked at it, hasn’t touched the box or even consciously thought about it, but it’s there. It’s been there.

“Ah,” she says. He thinks her smile looks more pleased than predatory, but it’s hard to tell. She takes one hand off his arm, setting it on his chest instead with a touch just firm enough to remind him how strong she is, and slowly smooths it up to the ridge of collarbone. “It had been a while for you before that day, hadn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says again. It’s been years since the last time he’d seen Ivan, since he’d had to leave because he couldn’t _stop_ saying yes. He’s not sure it’s any less of a sin now: Lazio might not be a man, but she’s not exactly a woman, either, and her claim on him isn’t --

Her fingers settle around his throat and his scattered, skittering thoughts stop dead; she says, “That’s good,” and it shivers through him, crawling into his bones. It’s hard not to believe it. “You gave me something you didn’t give her, that’s very good.” A drop of blood wells on her lip as she smiles again. She licks it away herself and he closes his eyes, but the image stays unbelievably vivid in his mind, like a stain, a scar, and her hand is so tight against the bob of his throat as he swallows. “Miroslav,” she says. “Look at me.”

“Lazio--”

“Look at me.”

He opens his eyes again slowly and looks at her, telling himself it’s because it’s an order, trying not to think about how much he wants to follow it. Her index finger is stroking very, very slowly over his pulse, as if she’s coaxing it along, though it hardly needs it.

“Should I fuck you again?” she asks, and he knew she was going to say it but his breath stutters silently anyway at the somehow-strange vulgarity, his chin tilting up a little under the pressure of her grip. “Miroslav,” she prompts when he doesn’t answer immediately.

“Yes,” he says. God help him, he’s already hard, has been since she pinned him here and asked about -- it -- the scent of dirt and grass and blood and sweat too familiar. He knows he shouldn’t, he mustn’t, that they’re waiting for him, but all of that is so distant and out of reach. “Please.”

“Very, very good,” she murmurs, and he knows he’s not imagining the pleasure in her smile now, not when she finally lets go of his wrist and presses her palm against his cock instead, so sudden and firm that his hips jolt forward involuntarily. She shushes him like an unruly animal and takes a step back, leaving him standing there alone against the wall, feeling like his knees might give way. “I want my name on you. Undress.”

She’s seen it all before, but it’s still awkward stripping off in front of her while she watches, eyes hot on his skin. He leaves his clothes in a little pile on the floor, jacket, shirt, shoes, socks, jeans, then hesitates for a second, thumbs hooked into the waist of his briefs, until she raises one eloquent eyebrow and he slides them off too, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He wants to touch himself or cover himself, he’s not sure which.

“Stay there,” she says, and he does, hands against the wall slowly curling into loose fists to keep them still. It doesn’t take her long to get one of his extra kits; she tosses the shorts aside carelessly and brings the jersey back. “Put it on.”

Moving to take it from her feels strange, like breaking out of ice; even the shirt feels odd, though he’s worn it five years, the smooth sleek fabric like cool fingers on his overheated skin. Like the shirt itself means something new, something he wasn’t expecting. 

When he’s got it on she brushes her fingertips over the crest, tracing the _S.S. Lazio_ blazoned below her eagle, then beckons him forwards to the counter in the middle of the room: he follows as if he were on strings. 

She bends him over the counter with a hand flat between his shoulderblades, over _his_ name, then smooths it down slowly, running it over cloth and skin in what feels like a parody of the massage she’d given him, before. At the small of his back she pauses, long and deliberately, until his breath catches involuntarily with the anticipation and only then continues: palming his ass, her long cool fingers stretching over his hip, handling him with a disturbingly arousing proprietariness. 

“Perhaps I should have told some of them to stay,” she says, and he starts, can’t help it, glances over his shoulder. She’s smiling still but only faintly, looking down at her hand on him; she looks up and catches his eyes and he can’t tell if she’s joking. “I think you would have liked that. Felipe? He watches you. Or Simone? No, not him today. Lucas?”

Miro hasn’t allowed himself to think like that for a long time: thought can so easily lead to action. But under her gaze he can’t help it, the images flicker to life in his mind, out of his control. Felipe does watch him, and Inzaghi too, sometimes, and if she told them, if she ordered them, they might have stayed. It’s a twisted kind of half relief knowing it’s too late for that, that he’s only failing this temptation in spirit and not in body. Because he would have liked it, he knows it as well as she does; their hands on him as well as hers, the heavy weight of another man’s body on top of his own, inside him. “Lazio…”

“Yes, that’s what I thought.” She spreads him wider, nudging his knees apart with a press of her own, and traces the fingertips of her other hand up the inside of his thigh until they ghost across his perineum and over his hole. He shudders under the touch, finally scraping up the strength to look away, to press his forehead back against the cold hard counter underneath him, trying to ground himself. “Or perhaps it’s for the best.”

Her hand is only gone for a second or two and there’s no sound so he isn’t expecting it when her finger presses in, slick and wet, dragging a shocked helpless sound out of his throat. She pulls back just enough to stroke across his prostate, her finger curling firmly, deliberately inside him, before the second joins it, pressing just a little harder. It isn’t anything like the slow tease he remembers; it’s all he can do to hang on to the shreds of his control, his hands digging uselessly at the countertop, unable to get a solid grip. He can feel the precome welling up as she milks him, sliding down over the head of his cock and onto the jersey where it’s trapped under him, pulses of it again and again as she rolls her fingers perfectly inside him until the shirt’s damp against the tops of his thighs where they’re pressed against the countertop and his breath isn’t anything more than broken sobs. 

“You might make me jealous after all,” she says. Her fingers finally still, giving him a chance to gasp for breath, though he’s afraid to do anything more, afraid if he moves he’ll brush the table and it will be too much instead of not quite enough. But she just makes a soft pleased noise, not quite a laugh, her other hand gently stroking his hip, and says, “Now, ask me for more, like you did then.”

It takes him a while to find his voice, and when he does it’s not exactly steady. “Please,” he says, trying to remember through the thick haze what he’d said before. “Please -- Lazio -- I can take more.”

“I know you can.” He knows it too, but his nerves are so raw that he groans anyway as she pushes a third finger deep into him. “You can take more than this, too, can’t you?”

“Please,” he says, and then “ _oh god_ ,” as she draws back just long enough to curl her little finger under the others. The stretch of her knuckles pressing into him is so wide it aches in ways he’s never hurt before and didn’t know he would want so badly, so intense that he doesn’t even realize she has her thumb in him too until the width of her hand suddenly narrows and she’s in him to the wrist, her whole hand inside him. She curls her fingers into a loose fist and he can feel everything, every tiny shift; she rocks it gently but surely and he chokes on nothing, a few involuntary tears streaking down the length of his nose and spotting on the countertop.

“Miroslav.”

“More,” he says, because it’s all he can think between the fractured trip of _too big_ repeating over and over.

She shushes him again, wrapping her free hand around the front of his thigh and tugging him back towards her an inch or two. Her fist twists inside him as it slides deeper, only a little but it’s enough to send the blood roaring in his ears, until even letting the counter take all his weight he’s faint and dizzy and overwhelmed. She doesn’t stop: she pushes deeper until he has to stretch again around the width of her arm and she’s so far inside him that he’s never felt anything like it before and can barely understand any of it. 

He’s distantly aware that he’s begging, a jumbled mix of words and languages, but he’s so full now he can’t think clearly enough to make sense of his own words, let alone hers over top of them. Her hand curves up from his thigh under his jersey, her wide-spread fingers, shockingly cooler than his overheated skin, sliding just once over his too-slick cock. He hadn’t expected it, couldn’t have braced for it even if he had: it’s too much, and he’s coming even before she finishes, over her fingers, her palm with everything he has left. It’s a release so strong it almost hurts, and then she’s pulling her fist back out of him and his cock jerks hard again as her palm slips free, a stabbing spike of pleasure and an empty throbbing ache that leaves him more completely drained than he’s ever felt in his life.

After a while of lying there, chest heaving, face pressed flat against the counter, he hears footsteps and the rustle of silk behind him: he hadn’t even realized she’d left. The rough, warm touch of a wet towel against his thigh jolts on his oversensitive skin, but she puts a hand on the small of his back to hold him down as she cleans him with slow thoroughness, only lifting it to peel away the filthy shirt.

By the time she’s done he feels almost entirely human again, though his nerves are still tingling slightly, and a strangely hollow feeling he’s afraid may never leave him is lurking in the back of his mind. She drops the towel on the ground and slides her hand up his back slowly until her fingertips feather through the back of his hair, then steps away again, letting him up.

His knees stay steady underneath him as he straightens -- he’d wondered if they would -- and he crosses the room to the discarded little pile of his street clothes without incident, dressing in silence. He lingers a bit over the buttons on his shirt, trying to think of what to say: goodbye? thank you? Every possibility sounds ridiculous and stilted even in his own head.

When he turns, still half-undecided, she’s already gone.


End file.
